


Miscreants of Epic Proportions

by George_Music_Man_Hodgson



Category: Misfits (TV 2009), The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: ASBO - Freeform, Absurd, Accidental overdose, Anxiety, At Risk Youth, Bisexual Character, Character Development, Character Growth, Character studies, Community Service, Depression, Developing Friendships, Falling In Love, Fitzholme, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, Guilt, Hickving, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jopholme, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, LittHodge, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamorous relationship, Polyamory, Powers as a reflection of personality, Psychological Trauma, Psychology, Ridiculous, Romantic Friendship, Self Defense Killing, Sex, Shared Trauma, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Survivor Guilt, The Storm, The Terror/Misfits AU, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Woman Fairholme, Trauma, Trauma Bonding, U.K., Unlikely Friendships, fitzconte, hartving, lgbtq relationships, miscreants, misfits - Freeform, probation workers, super powers, the Estate, trans woman fitzjames, wertham community centre, young offenders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Music_Man_Hodgson/pseuds/George_Music_Man_Hodgson
Summary: The story follows seven delinquents on community service at a community centre who are caught outside during a supernatural thunderstorm, acquiring special abilities. This is the story of their misadventures and struggle for survival.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Cornelius Hickey/Lt John Irving, Lt Edward Little/George Hodgson/Thomas Hartnell, Lt George Hodgson/Lt Edward Little, Lt Graham Gore/Lt John Irving, Lt Henry T.D.. Le Vescont/Sophia Cracroft, Lt James W. Fairholme/James Fitzjames, Lt James W. Fairholme/Thomas Jopson, Thomas Hartnell & Lt George Hodgson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	Miscreants of Epic Proportions

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS AN ADAPTATION ALTERNATE UNIVERSE FICTION SETTING CHARACTERS FROM _THE TERROR_ TV SERIES AND PLACING THEM WITHIN THE WORLD OF _MISFITS_ TV SERIES. 
> 
> NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. THIS IS PURELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES.

It is a mild spring morning- Monday, a fairly cloudless sky greeting seven twenty-somethings gathered outside the Wertham Community Centre. The Centre, surrounded by a lake, stands in the middle of The Estate- a largely impoverished urban area full of council houses, concrete walkways covered in graffiti, down-at-heel public buildings, and disused factories and warehouses. The Estate is home also to several pubs, two nightclubs, bowling alley, graveyard, and a general hospital. Certainly not an ideal neighborhood, but it’s home to the gathered young offenders waiting to begin their community service.

A stocky, black man of forty-something years—a probation worker— stands facing the group of misfits, already tired. 

“This is it. This is your chance to do something positive. Give something back. You can help people, you can really make a difference to people's lives. That's what community service is all about. There are people out there who think you're scum. You have an opportunity to show them they're wrong.”

The lone blond man in the assembled group arches an eyebrow in shocked surprise at the use of the word ‘scum’. He wore a light wearing periwinkle turtleneck beneath a grey pinstripe waistcoat with grey trousers to top off the look. His wispy hair kept neat; bright blue eyes gentle. Clearly not your typical young offender.

“But what if they're right? No offense, but I'm thinking some people are just born criminals.” The comment came from the smirking goateed brunet sporting a t-shirt that read ‘ _Fuck That Noise’_ written out with a sharpie marker over black jeans.

The piercing hazel-eyed, dark brown-haired leather-jacketed man next to him fired back, “You looking to get stabbed?” 

“You see my point there?” The smirker laughed.

The beleaguered probation worker ignores them, continues on, “Doesn't matter what you've done in the past—” the clear tone of a mobile going off interrupts him.

“Hi,” a tall, lanky brunette responds from the clean-cut blond’s other side. Her long mid-back length hair is perfectly curled and sports several fluorescent coloured hair extensions, accentuating her long, rectangular face. “Doing my community service,” a distinct tone of boredom evident in her voice. She wore skinny jeans and a long, breezy cornflower blue tunic top complete with a fashion belt at her waist.

“Hey,” the probation worker glares at her, his voice taking on a flinty edge.

She ignores him, responding to the caller, “Boring as fuck.”

“Excuse me. Hello, I'm still talking here.”

“I thought you’d finished.” 

“You see my lips still moving, that means I'm still talking.”

“You could have been yawning, or chewing.” This from Smirker. Leather Jacket beside him audibly sighs and tilts his head back to gaze heavenward, clearly asking to be anywhere but here.

“End the call.” The probation worker is completely angry now. “Hang up!”

“My probation worker…” the brunette tells her caller.

Smirker then notices clean-cut blond playing air-piano. At some point he’d popped in earbuds to listen to his iPod. “All right there, Blondie?” He reaches across Leather Jacket to pluck one of the earbuds from his ear. “Hey, weird kid!”

“Leave it!” Leather Jacket pushes off from the railing he’d been leaning against, getting into Smirker’s face.

Breezy continues to chat with her friend, “Don't be disgusting. I'll call you later.”

“I shouldn't be here.” The tall, artificially silver-haired man standing on Smirker’s other side finally speaks. Black trousers and grey button-up shirt. Another unlikely candidate for community service. “Can I move to a different group? This isn't working for me.”

“We need to work as a team here.” The probation worker attempts to corral them. “Hey, that's enough!”

“What makes you think you're better than us?” Leather Jacket tosses at Silver, arms crossed.

“What is that accent?” Smirker is back at it, attention focused on Leather Jacket and his thick Mancunian accent. “Is that for real?”

“You trying to say something?”

“It's… That's just a noise. Are we supposed to be able to understand him?” The Smirker asks unrepentently. 

Leather Jacket shoves him in the shoulder. “You understand that?”

“I think he likes me!”

“No one likes you,” the baseball cap wearing track-suited man on Silver’s other side levels at him, highly irritated. “You’re a prick, man, look at ya.”

Smirker just laughs, “You like prick?” He gives Baseball Cap an eyebrow waggle. “I see you looking.”

“You're a fuckin' pussy, bruv.” Baseball Cap takes a swing at him, “He's taking the piss. Come here!”

Leather Jacket and the probation worker quickly move in to get between them, pulling them apart before the fight could truly begin. However, as Smirker made an effort to launch himself at Baseball Cap, Leather Jacket shoves him back hard, sending him flying back to topple Blondie and Breezy; Blondie catches himself against the rail but one of his wrists hits the metal hard, prompting him to bite down on his lip—hard enough to draw blood—to avoid crying out and drawing attention to himself even as he caught Breezy to keep her from going down.

“Fucking hell, you wankers!” She glares at Leather Jacket, Smirker, Baseball Cap, and the probation worker. “It’s too early in the morning for this bullshit!”

“HEY, pack it in,” bellows the probation worker infuriated with this group and being spoken to in such a manner. “Now, get in there and put on those jumpsuits.” The probation shakes his clipboard at them. “FIVE minutes and you’re back back out here.” When they did not immediately react, he shouted, “MOVE!”

Griping amongst themselves, the six move inside and make their way for the locker room. Inside the room there was a motivational poster of a kitten hanging from a tree branch with the words ‘ _Hang in there_ ’ printed underneath. Taking a sharpie from his jeans pocket, Smirker reaches up to draw a moustache and devil horns on the kitten.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


Across the lake the orange jump-suited group assembles, charged with the task of repainting the aging benches they are armed with paint brushes and buckets of white paint. Tensions still simmering, Blondie chooses the bench furthest away. He sets the bucket down and sits cross-legged, holding his injured and aching wrist close against his torso as he uses his free right hand to start painting over the wood slats on the bench. 

Breezy and Leather Jacket work at the bench not too far from him. Sensing someone staring, Blondie turns his head to see Breezy looking at him with some concern. Instinctively he licks his lips and turns back to the business of painting. Earlier she noticed the blood on his lower lip from having bitten down on it. He’d waved it away and quickly fled the locker room before anyone else could notice anything. Sensing she was still looking at him, he retreats into his thoughts, turning on the jukebox in his mind. Selecting Nouvelle Vague’s cover of _The Killing Moon_ , he tunes out everyone and everything, hearing only the music and feeling the gentle motion of his hand painting along the bench.

“Oh man, there’s paint on my cap!” Baseball Cap removes his cap which had touched the wet paint when he’d leant in to dip his brush. “This is bullshit!” Tossing down the paintbrush and kicking aside the bucket, he storms away, grousing profanities to himself.

Snickering, Silver shakes his head and continues painting. Smirker laughs and abandons Silver at the bench they’d been working at, choosing to come over to Leather Jacket and Breezy. 

“So I’m guessing shoplifting?” This he says to Leather Jacket. “No?”

Leather Jacket speaks without looking at him, painting up the back of the bench. “Don’t act like you know me, cos you don’t.”

“I’m just making conversation. This is a chance to network with other young offenders.” Smirker gestures between him and the others. “We should be swapping tips. Brainstorming. Come on, what did you do?”

“I got in a fight.” Leather Jacket meets his eyes then with a steely stare, daring him to continue bothering him.

“Was this on _The Jeremy Kyle_ show?”

“No,” Leather Jacket straightens up and takes a step closer to the rat-faced Smirker. “At the bar I tend.”

“Which bar is this? I’d love to see this. Get in fights often, do you?”

“I ain’t telling you.”

Smirker grins wickedly. “Tell me what? Which bar you work at or whether you fight often?”

“Oh would you just piss off, already!” Breezy stands and flips him off. 

“What about you Blondie?” Smirker turns his focus to his next target who appears to take no notice. “Hey, Blondie! Weird kid!” He plucks up an empty beer can near the bench and aims it. The can bounces off one of the painted slats, sending a few flecks of white paint to dot the blond’s cheek and nose. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you look like a panty-sniffer.”

“Leave him alone, you stupid prick-”

Leather Jacket cuts Breezy off by grabbing hold of Smirker’s jumpsuit collar, getting into his face, “From this moment on he doesn’t exist to you. You don’t speak to him- don’t even fucking look at him if you know what’s good for you.”

“STOP IT!” 

Surprised to hear the unfamiliar voice, Leather Jacket and Breezy step back in time to see a paintbrush flung their way; it caught Smirker full in the face and then fell into the bucket at their feet, splashing all three; orange jump-suits splattered with white paint.

Both Breezy and Leather Jacket stare at Blondie who had _finally_ spoken up—impressed—while Smirker curses and scrubs paint from his face. Even Silver looks at him as though for the first time, enticed over by the display and whistling low in satisfaction.

“First of all,” Blondie begins, glaring at Smirker, “my name is _George_.”

“Edward.”

“Dundy.”

“Vesta-Tilley, Vesta to my friends.”

Leather Jacket, Silver, and Breezy make their introductions respectively, giving George various expressions of approval.

“What kind of shit name is Vesta-Tilley? Sounds like someone’s great-grandmother’s name,” Smirker speaks up, ruining the moment, clearly unable to remain silent even for two minutes.

“Fuck you,” she spat.

“I’d rather _he_ fuck me,” Smirker spares George a suggestive smile. “Seems he has an impressive set of balls, that one.”

They all level disgusted gazes at him just before Edward’s fist swung out and knocked Smirker’s head back, growling. “What did I tell you, Rat-Fucker?”

“Steady on, mate!” Dundy grabs his arm to stop him going in for another swing. “He’s not worth it.”

Straightening up, Smirker spits out blood and laughs. “The name’s Hickey, thank you very much.”

“What kind of shit name is _Hickey_?” Vesta smirks, clearly pleased to turn it around on him.

A sudden boom of thunder stops Hickey from making a reply, startling all of them. Where it had been mild and sunny before, now large grey clouds converged overhead. Another boom rang out.

“What’s with this weather?” Dundy voices their thoughts.

“How did _that_ happen?” The probation worker queries, already upset taking in the sight of the upset paint bucket and the fact that three of them are splattered with paint and that one of those paint-splattered three is now sporting a bloodied nose and split lip. “I mean you’ve been here less than ten minutes. It’s painting benches. How did you screw that up?”

Hickey opens his mouth to speak, likely to make a smart-arsed remark once again, but is silenced by the sight and sound of a _massive_ ball of hail crashing down onto a green car parked not so far behind the probation worker, totalling the vehicle.

“Fucking Christ!” The probation worker exclaims, aghast. “That’s my fucking car! 

“Classic!” Hickey laughs merrily, as though at a comedy show.

Dundy pulls Vesta out of the way of another stray ball of hail, this one far less massive, but nonetheless it hits the bench with a loud thunk, shattering and spraying them both with ice.

“What the hell was that?” George gasps, gazing toward the sky, strangely fascinated. “Oh my god!” He instantly throws himself back when another enormous ball shatters the bench he’d been standing beside.

“Fucking hell!” Edward moves in without a thought, hurrying over and taking George’s hand, swiftly drawing him to his feet. When a second later the probation worker shouts for them to run back to the Centre, Edward keeps hold of his hand and starts running furiously after the others who dodge and weave to avoid the projectiles raining down. Lightning flashes, strikes a nearby light post, sending shattered pieces flying.

They soon reach one of the rear doors to the Centre. Dundy reaches it first and pulls only to find it locked, prompting him to pound on it in frustration. He whirls on the probation worker, “Why the bloody hell is it locked?!” 

Ignoring him, the probation worker pulls out his keys, attempting to find the right one as everyone crowds him.

“Hurry up!” Vesta hisses. 

“Come on already!” Hickey yells, “This is really starting to freak me out!”

Edward growls, “Open the _fucking_ door!”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” snaps the probation worker, irate. 

Another bolt of lightning strikes a light post not far behind them, startling them all, eliciting a frantic yelp from George. Just as the probation worker finds the right key a second bolt strikes the group. Electricity courses through their bodies, nerves in acute pain. Then, as quickly as it happened, it’s over. Knocked backward, they all land in various positions and poses, feeling residual shocks- but very much alive.

“I feel really weird,” George gasps, tears streaming from his eyes, anguished. He’d landed on his already injured wrist.

“You’re already really weird,” Hickey mutters, “that’s not saying much.”

“That’ll be the lightning,” Dundy tells George, stiff and sore as he sits up slowly.

“We should be dead.” The probation worker sits up, shaking his head out.

“A little reassurance might be nice, you know.” Hickey suggests, very much annoyed, “You’re fine. Looking good. Something like that?”

“Wanker!” Exclaims the probation worker, eyes flashing.

“Did he just call me a wanker?” Hickey looks to the group, then back to the probation worker. “Hey, _hello_!”

The man shook his head again. “Is everyone all right?”

“We could have died, you dick.” Vesta massages her shoulder where it had hit the ground hard.

George manages to sit up, looking closely at the probation worker. “Are you alright? You’re acting strange.”

“ _Urghhhhh_!” 

“He’s acting like a freak,” Hickey says, eyeing the man as though he were a wild animal as he continues to grunt and shake his head.

They all start getting up and backing away.

Finally the probation worker appears to get a hold of himself. “Maybe we should call it a day.” 

The five of them exchange glances and—not needing to be told twice—move past him. Dundy bends down to pluck the keyring from the ground and using the correct key unlocks the door. He leaves the key in the door and follows the others inside, the heavy door slamming shut behind him. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


“Do we just go, then?” Dundy asks. “Where's the probation worker?”

They all stand in the locker room dressed in their own clothes once again, the orange jumpsuits shoved back into the lockers.

“I think there's something wrong with him. It's like he was having a spasm.” George voices, his manner quiet once more. The whole event appeared to have diminished his energies. 

Hickey scoffs, “He was probably just faking it, to get compensation. Cheap bastard.” 

“I don't think he was faking it.” George anxiously insists.

“Well, I’m not hanging around for that dickhead.” Vesta rolls her eyes, gathering her purse.

“Fuck, George, you going to be all right?” Dundy throws out, noticing the vivid bruising and massive swelling of the blond’s wrist.

“It’s fine.” George responds, drawing his sleeve down to cover his hand to the knuckles. “Planned to get it looked at on my way home.”

Confused by the exchange and George’s action, Edward reaches out to take his arm and carefully draws the sleeve up to see what it was they were referring to. A flash of what appeared to be guilt steals across his face before he draws the sleeve back down, releasing George’s arm.

“I’ll walk you to hospital.” When everyone looks at him, George with obvious surprise, he adds, “Was going to visit a mate there anyway.”

Vesta gives them an appraising look, but then rolls her eyes, clearly ready to head out. “Até logo,” she moves for the door, throwing it open quite dramatically as she dons her cats-eye sunglasses.

“That Spanish?” Hickey grins, following after her. “Dead sexy.”

“Portuguese, you wanker.” She throws out her arm and flips him off without ever turning around, sashaying out the front door into the sunlight- the storm nothing but a memory.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


A short while later George and Edward turn the corner and come within view of Wertham General Hospital. They walk side by side in silence. The entire trek had been silent- awkwardly so. Still in great pain, George blanked his mind to keep from anxious worries over whether the injury would prevent him playing piano at the hotel lounge and cause him to lose his job; Edward, however, at a loss for anything to say now they were alone, remains quiet.

“That mate of yours,” George’s quiet voice sounds altogether too loud after that lengthy silence, “is he going to be all right?”

Edward turns to him, an eyebrow raised in question. “My mate?”

“Yes…?” George looks at him, now confused. “You said you were going to visit a mate—”

“ _Oh_ —” 

They stop just outside the doors, George more perplexed than ever and Edward embarrassed, a touch awkward.

“Ehm,” he scuffs the toe of his shoes on the ground, eyes not quite meeting George’s, “don’t have a mate here...dunno why I said that. Everyone was looking at me, it was weird.”

George sighs quietly, looks away with slumping shoulders and thinks, _“Of course, it’s inherently weird to be a decent person to the weird kid.”_

“‘S not like that,” Edward hastens to say.

“Sorry?” Raising his own eyebrow, the blond turns back to him. “It’s not like what?”

“What you said.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did,” Edward frowns, “about it being weird to be decent to the weird kid.”

George pales, eyes widening a bit. “I _never_ said that.” He takes a step back and looks over his shoulder at the hospital doors. “Look, it was really nice of you to walk me, but I’ll be fine now.”

“Wait— no—,” Edward eye’s flicker, stung.

“ _No_ , it’s fine.” George turns, tossing out a word of thanks, practically fleeing inside while Edward stands stock still surprised and confused with what had just happened.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


Hours later, George is sat outside on the tiny balcony connected to his small bedroom. His long legs are folded up, knees to his chin, feet pressed against the balcony rail. An ice pack lays flat on his wrist—mercifully not sprained, fractured, or broken—while his free hand holds a mug of cheap white wine. Idly he thinks he shouldn’t be having wine after having taken the high dosage pain medication he’d been prescribed, but after a day like today, he really could care less. 

After the hospital he’d gone to his second job at the hotel where he plays piano in the lounge near the bar. He’d spoken to his boss and explained the situation, requesting at least three days off. It was a reasonable enough request, and though his boss agreed, he had looked none too pleased about it.

Now, staring out at the evening sky, George drinks back the last of the wine. He can only hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


That strange moment with George was only the beginning, Edward now understands. Walking past people on the street and doling out drinks at the bar, now, he’s beginning to think he’s on the verge of going mental. His mind is crowded by voices, unraveling under all the inane, ridiculous, and frankly disgusting things being said. Standing under the dimmed light in the men’s toilets, pressing the palm of his hand hard against his temple, he knows the voices aren’t his own. He knows they belong to everyone he’s encountered over the day, yet without an explanation for how such a thing is possible, he finds himself becoming more and more certain he’s simply losing his mind.

Unable to stand it anymore, Edward leaves the toilets and searches out Mike, the only co-worker present this evening. He finds Mike taking a smoke break out back and lets him know he’s done for the evening. Pretending at an excruciating migraine—which really isn’t so far from the truth—Edward abandons him to the bustling crowd inside. 

As he makes his way home he hears the sound of a piano, the notes plaintive, coming from one of the flats above him. Upon a closer inspection there is only one flat with its window open- the continued sounds of playing reaching his ears. Something about the playing seems halting, and yet even so, the music made him feel a melancholy deep in his chest. Edward is suddenly swamps with a feeling of loss and loneliness he cannot even begin to describe. It makes him forget about the voices, about heading home. 

Then, just as quickly as it began, the music ceases, and with it the feelings of melancholy...

  
  


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“This is a joke,” Dundy groans, taking in the graffiti that had been spray painted along one of the side walls of the Centre, reading _I’m Going To Kill You_. “Did one of you do this?”

“Don’t look at me,” Vesta yawns, bored already, “I didn’t do it.”

“I’ll tell you who did it, it's that Banksy prick. There's a hidden meaning. It's like that monkey policeman with the banana and the Tesco's bag.”

Everyone collectively ignores Hickey. 

“Maybe someone wants to kill us,” George voices with trepidation. 

“Why would anybody want to kill us?” Hickey stares at him, incredulous.

“I can think of ten reasons, at least, why someone would want to kill _you_ ,” Edward stares pointedly back at Hickey.

The probation worker passes by and motions them toward the door. “Come on, you lot, get changed.”

“Have you seen this?” Dundy questions him. “Someone's taking the piss.”

“Yeah, terrible, isn't it?” The probation worker didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “All this anti-social behaviour.”

“Oh, is he having a dig at us?” Hickey smirks and takes out a pack of smokes from his back pocket.

The sound of a mobile ringing cuts through the air. 

“Right, that's it! All of you, just give me your phones.” The probation worker growls. “No one's making any more calls today.”

“Are you allowed to take our phones?” Dundy voices, wary.

The probation worker goes down the line, growing more angry. “NOW, come on.” When he reaches Vesta, she merely stares back at him refusing to give up her mobile. 

Unfortunately for her, it rang just then, the sound coming from her jean skirt pocket. The probation worker reaches out before anyone could even react, digging his hand into her skirt pocket, jerking her roughly before removing his hand which now clenched her mobile.

“ _How dare you, you fucking bastard!_ ” Vesta shouted, “That’s assault, that is! Touching me like that!” She hauls back and punches him in the face, completely losing it in her fury and feeling of violation.

Immediately George grabs at Vesta’s jean jacket to pull her back as Edward and Dundy move in to block the probation worker from retaliating. 

The probation worker looks ready to murder them all then and there, but somehow manages to get some hold of himself. “GET CHANGED NOW!” 

“Let’s just go. Sooner we change, the sooner we can leave,” Edward urges them forward while standing his ground, refusing to turn his back on this beast until they’re safely inside.

They quickly move inside, eager to get away from the lunatic in charge. “Seriously, is he allowed to take our phones like that?” George queries quietly once Edward joins them inside.

“He's probably going to use them to call one of those sex lines.” Hickey posits, entering into the locker room ahead of the others. “Those sex lines will eat your credit.” He smirks in greeting when he notices there are two new jumpsuited individuals joining their ranks. “Oh hello.”

“Call them a lot, do you?” 

The question came from the raven-haired young woman made up with eyeliner, purplish-black eyeshadow, and black lipstick. She sported a pair of Mary-Janes, her white stockings apparent, and around her neck rested a black choker with a metallic raven skull. Her long hair is held up and kept in place by black hair chopsticks.

“Thea?” Vesta stops short, staring at her with some surprise. “What’re you doing here?”

Dundy quirks an eyebrow, “You know each other?”

“Yeah, she’s my flatmate,” responds Vesta. “Just moved in yesterday.”

“Graffitied my art professor’s classroom and set his car on fire,” Thea answers her flatmate’s question as though Dundy never interrupted.

“ _Fire?_ ” Hickey swallows, sizing her up as though to ascertain how much he could get away with.

“Yeah.” She smirks, withdrawing her lighter in the shape of a coffin, flicking back the lid to get a flame going. “Like playing with fire, do you?”

Hickey, deciding it better to switch topics, returns to the topic of the probation worker and their phones. “I swear that probation worker's out there feeling himself on our phones, naked, masturbating.”

“Ughh, that’s revolting,” Vesta covers her mouth as if about to be sick.

Effectively ignoring Hickey, Edward looks to the towheaded young man standing near Thea. “Who’re you?

The smiling, cheerful looking man, sported a goatee like Hickey, but looked decidedly less smarmy. “Tom Hartnell,” he gives a good-natured little wave. “Joyriding.”

Deeming him harmless, Edward introduces himself and is followed by everyone else before they disperse to get to the business of changing out. None of them want to linger too long in case the probation worker might come in and harass them further.

  
  


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After changing out the group is back outside armed with buckets of soapy water, sponges, and brushes and are hard at work cleaning off the graffiti- or, at least, most of them are.

“Yeah, just relax,” Dundy suggests with obvious sarcasm, looking over his shoulder at Vesta who is stretched out atop one of the tables, sunning herself in a bikini top with the top half of her jumpsuit zipped open and gathered at her waist. “Take it easy.”

“Someone's just going to write something else on there tonight. They make us do these bullshit little jobs, wearing these bullshit orange jumpsuits. They can suck my dick.”

“Nice.” He rolls his eyes, but continues to gaze at her.

“Feel free to check out my tits, yeah,” she smirks, pursing her lips to give him an air kiss. 

Working at the fringe of the group, George rubs the wet, soapy sponge over the graffiti, doing his best to clean away the spray paint. To protect his injured wrist he wore a sling to ensure against use and further accident. 

_“I suppose it’s no surprise I got sacked,”_ George thinks, lamenting the loss of his day job at the florists, _“what with the ASBO and the community service…”_

Hearing his thoughts Edward stops scrubbing and looks at him with concern. George, eyes and manner downcast, fails to notice him. 

Tom worked nearest George, whistling a pleasant tune, completely unaware of any undercurrents. George smiles warmly to himself, recognising the tune, and feeling much better for the music— _any_ music—hums gently along in accompaniment. Pleased to hear the accompaniment Tom grins and continues the tune, doing a little dance to amuse him. His efforts are rewarded when George begins to sway just a bit to their shared music. 

Feeling strangely uneasy over their shared connection, Edward clears his throat loudly and addresses the group, “You know after the storm, did any of you feel like dead weird?” 

“Yeah,” Hickey is quick to say. “I had a strange tingling sensation in my anus.”

“Wait—” Tom’s brows furrow, “you lot were caught in the storm too?”

 _I should say something,”_ Thea ruminates, but then talks herself out of it. _“I'll just sound like a freak.”_

Edward turns to face her, as she is stood on his other side. “What, did you feel weird?”

“How did you _know_ ?” Thea backs away from him, frowning. “I never _said_ anything.”

“It was your face,” Edward quickly covers, not wanting a repeat of the incident with George, which he seriously regretted, “your expression, I mean.”

“You don't want to hear about my anus?” Hickey chimes in again, looking at them all with expectation.

“Do you really need to ask the question?” George retorts, surprising them all.

“What's that?” Hickey holds up a hand to his ear. “Squeak up.”

“Why do you always have to be so disgusting?” George frowns, not at all in the mood for his antics.

“Oh-ho, is that some prudish modesty?” Hickey smirks salaciously, sidling over to him. “You a virgin? Isn’t that precious? I can rectify that for you.” He slides a finger slowly down George’s arm.

Enraged, Edward moves quickly for Hickey fully intending to knock his teeth in but is stopped dead in his tracks when George does the job for him, knocking the little bastard hard in the face. Hickey flails back in intense surprise and knocks over the bucket of soapy water George had been using. He slips on the water and falls back onto the ground.

George, however, isn’t able to enjoy the sight. “Jesus H Christ!” He shakes out his hand which is radiating pain. “Bloody _fucking_ hell!” He flexes his fingers and immediately regrets it. _“Now I really won’t be able to play,”_ he mentally broods, blinking back tears. 

Hickey gets to his feet, spitting out a bit of blood. “Seriously,” he glares at George, “what the _actual_ fuck?”

“Oh just shut up you stupid fucking arsehole!” He turns and stalks away, biting his lip in anger and frustration, reopening the wound from the day before, tasting blood. _“I likely just lost my job because of that little shit.”_

“George, wait—” Tom calls out to him, very much worried.

Edward quickly moves to follow after him when Thea catches his arm, pulling him back. 

“Let him go,” she tells him, eyes sympathetic. “Give him some time.”

“Look, let’s just get back to work,” Dundy suggests. “He’ll be all right and will come back when he’s ready.”

Huffing out a sigh, Edward looks off in the direction George had gone for a long moment before turning back to the work at hand.

  
  
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George turns the corner and descends the few steps to the walkway along the lake, intending to take a little time to cool down. Still lost in his thoughts, he’s completely startled when the probation worker appeared almost out of nowhere.

“Hodgson, where are you going?”

“Leave me alone,” George tossed at him, surprising himself. He started to feel anxious over the remark but then realised, _“What’s he going to do? Give me more community service time?”_

“I’m talking to you.” The probation worker grabs his arm, hard, pulling him back so they face one another. “You can't just walk off whenever you feel like it.”

George’s eyes widen and he instinctively pushes at the man. “Get your hands off me!” 

“You just keep pushing, don't you?” The probation worker snarls, eyes flashing. “Push, push, push. I'm sick of dealing with scum like you.”

“I’ll report you!”

"Oh. yeah?” The probation worker scoffs in his face. “And who's going to believe you, eh? You're nothing! You little shit!”

Truly panicking now, George struggles harder to break the man’s hold on him. When that didn’t work, he kicks the crazed probation worker in the balls and takes off running when the man doubles over. The animalistic grunts and stream of profanities prompting him to run even faster.

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The others, already changed back into their street clothes, gather inside the main entryway waiting for George and for the probation worker to return their mobiles. Vesta lounges on a shabby sofa; Thea is sat at the other end playing with her lighter, passing her finger through the flame at intervals. Tom and Dundy go about in wheelchairs they’d found in the storage room—Tom popping wheelies—while Hickey has his arm through the little door in the vending machine, nicking a bag of Walker’s Wotsits, a Kit Kat bar, and a Yorkie bar. Edward, however, paces and casts glances at the main door every so often.

Vesta lets out a sound of extreme boredom, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a huff, and sits up straighter. “All right you lot, let’s have a bit of storytime.” She curls her long legs beneath her. 

“Get this, me and my mate, Chloe, were having cocktails in this bar, yeah, and she's hassling me, cos she wants to go to this party. Chloe is on one, because she thinks Jack is doing Lucy.”

Hickey sits down cross-legged close to the sofa, opening the bag of Wotsits and appears very much as though he’s at the movies with popcorn in his lap.

“So we get in my car. I drive us to the party. We go into one of the rooms, yeah, Jack's not doing Lucy, he's doing Ellie. Chloe freaks.”

Vesta smirks, pleased to see she now has an audience, as Dundy and Tom wheel themselves over and even Edward pauses in his pacing to look at her. 

“I’m driving us back into town. Chloe's all like, "Oh, I feel sick." I'm like... Don't puke in my car. Do not puke in my car. That's when the police pull us over.”

It’s now that Thea looks up from playing with her lighter, curious to know the end.

“I’m already banned from driving, so I’m like, ‘Fuck.’ This cop, yeah...he hands me the breathalyser, and I'm like..."Do I suck, or blow?"

She smiles seductively, giving them her best bedroom eyes as she takes her now empty narrow necked water bottle to her lips, slowly licking it before taking it into her mouth, simulating a blowjob. Hickey looks on with immense amusement, Tom’s eyes widen a little, Dundy’s intense focus on the bottle and her lips could not be mistaken for anything but clear interest, while Edward and Thea exchange looks of tired incredulity.

Eventually Vesta slowly slides the bottle from her mouth, smirking. “It's insane, I'm totally working it, yeah. Now, I don't know if this cop is gay or asexual or what, but he tells me I'm four times over the limit.”

Before anyone can react the main door is flung open. George practically throws himself inside, tripping over his own feet and toppling over. Running on adrenaline he’s up quickly and pulls the door closed, eyes wide and frantic.

“He's gonna kill us!”

“Shit!” Taken aback, Edward whirls to face George, now on edge seeing how clearly shaken he is.

Hickey claps, rising to his feet to give a standing ovation. “Nice entrance. Very dramatic.”

“The probation worker just attacked me!” 

_“Seriously? Is he for real?”_

_“No way that happened.”_

_“Shit, he’s snapped and gone mental. It’s always the quiet, anxious ones.”_

Edward winces when suddenly everyone mentally reacted, the noise prompting him to bring his hands up to his temple. “Something really weird is happening. I'm hearing these voices- it’s like I can hear what people are thinking.”

“Been sniffing glue?” Hickey scoffs.

“The storm, the lightning,” Edward insists, “it's done something to us.”

“OK. If you can hear our thoughts, what am I thinking now?” Hickey feigns an expression of deep contemplation. _“This is bullshit.”_

“You think it's bullshit.”

“Course I think it's bullshit! You don't need to be a mind reader to know that.”

Tom comes over to George, resting his hand lightly on his arm, “What do you mean, the probation worker attacked you?”

“He is out there and he chased me!” George wrings his hands, pupils as wide as saucers, _“We need to get out of here now!”_

“Something's happened to me too.” Thea contributes. “I can turn invisible.”

“So, he’s psychic and you can turn invisible. That seems likely.” Hickey rolls his eyes. “You two are hilarious. Really, keep taking that medication.”

George immediately grabs his arm when he moves for the door. “Don't go out there, he’ll kill you.” 

“Of course he will, cos he's such a badass.”

“ _Don’t!_ ”

Hickey just stares at him. _“I would. I would definitely shag him.”_

“Well,” Dundy moves forward past the both of them, “I’ll believe it when I see it,” pushing the door open.

“No!” George leaps over to put himself between Dundy and the door, intending to grab hold of it and pull it quickly shut. 

The damage, however, was already done. A demonic snarl sounded through the door followed by the probation worker lunging forward with a long, thick metal object in his hands. The probation worker shoves the sharpened end directly into George’s temple, the force of it pushing him against the wall, pinning him there for a few seconds before the probation worker removed the sharp end from his skull. 

Everyone screams and jumps back, but Dundy remains motionless in abject horror. All manner of sound fades and all he can see is George’s wide-eyed, shocked expression as he falls to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut, blood flowing onto the floor. He hears his heartbeat in his ears for at least two beats before his vision flickers and flashes as his mind’s eye is turned into a movie screen, the film quickly rewinding too fast for him to see the images as they flashed by in reverse. Then, as quickly as it happened, it stops. Dundy is no longer standing near George’s corpse at the door, but further back with the others. 

“You two are hilarious. Really, keep taking that medication.”

“Don't go out there, he’ll kill you.” 

“Of course he will, cos he's such a badass.”

“ _Don’t!_ ”

Realising what had just happened and what is about to happen, Dundy steps forward and exclaims, “He's telling the truth!” 

“And you know this how? I suppose you're psychic now too.” Hickey makes a little gesture with his finger close to his head, suggesting they’re all mental.

“All this. It's already happened once. I open the door, the probation worker, he killed you.” Dundy says in a rush and looks at George, then, tears of apology flickering in his eyes. “You were right there. You were dead. Everything froze. You were all just standing there. Time went backwards.”

“What are you saying?” Vesta eyes him, confused and wary. “You turned back time?”

Hickey rolls his eyes, “This gets better by the second.”

“Everything happened again. Exactly the same.” Dundy implores them to believe him, his heart racing. “I'm telling you, don't open that door.”

Wanting to end the argument once and for all, Tom heads for the door and ignores Dundy’s shout for him to stop. Carefully he opens the door just a little to peek out and spots the probation worker some feet away. The man was drooling, eyes wild- even from this distance Tom could see his pupils are dilated to an extreme degree. 

“ _Shit!_ He's right.” Tom hastily closes the door and locks it. “The probation worker's gone mental!”

As he says this the probation worker hurls himself at the door, banging and pulling, trying to force it open. Startled and very much afraid now, the group are all on their feet, closing ranks as they back away, their eyes focused on the door hoping it wouldn’t give way anytime soon.

“Maybe he's on crystal meth. That shit makes you crazy.” Vesta offers, speaking up only to hear her own voice over the banging. “My friend Marcus did it, he nearly shagged his brother; and he's really ugly.” 

“The graffiti,” George realises, “I’m going to kill you. He wrote it.”

“What did I say? I said there was a hidden meaning.” Hickey points out, not quite as smug as he would have been were it not for the current situation. “Or not.”

“Did anything happen to you?” Edward tosses a glance at Vesta.

“No.” Vesta doesn’t remove her gaze from the door. “We should call the police.”

“He took our phones.” George points out, pale as porcelain. “He's got all our phones.”

Dundy holds up a hand to stop them all talking, “He's stopped.”

“You dickhead, why did you come back here? You should have gone for help!” Hickey whirls on George. 

“He tried to kill me!” George snaps, no longer quite so pale. “I came back here to warn you lot and I could have left you. I'm sick of you judging me. You can fuck off.”

“Whatever.” Thea tosses out, having had enough of the constant arguments. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Out the back way, come on.” Edward urges them ahead of him, taking up the rear.

They take off running down the corridor. They veer left and are almost at the side doors when Hickey slips on something slick on the floor, toppling over. They all stop to see if he’s all right when Tom pales, asking. “Is that blood?” 

Hickey looks at the liquid on the floor and then his hands, which are, in fact, covered in blood. “Oh, fuck! Jesus Christ! Get it off me.” He groans in revulsion, vigorously wiping his hands on his shirt but it doesn’t do much. He’d fallen into the thick of it. 

Edward notices it first, silently pointing it out to the others. There are lines of flowing blood coming down from one locker out of the row behind Hickey. 

Feeling sick and anxious, George bites his lip hard, his heart pounding. Tom steps closer to him, gently gripping his arm, and Thea, on his other side, takes hold of his hand. Hickey then notices the bloody locker and with a yelp, jumps back to stand near Vesta who stares at the locker in horror, tears gathering in her eyes. Dundy moves to stand on her other side, placing his hand on her shoulder while Edward reaches out and opens the locker door.

The shrieks, cries, and gasps that surround him fall on deaf ears. For once all Edward hears is silence as he stares at the corpse of Baseball Cap—the offender who disappeared the day before—somehow suspended in the locker.

“Jesus!” Hickey winces. “I did wonder what had happened to him.”

“He's going to kill us.” Vesta’s tears flowed now, lips quivering. 

“Turn back time,” George looks at Dundy pleadingly, his voice insubstantial, “stop this happening.” 

“I don't know how it works,” Dundy responds, his expression one of deep regret.

Hickey grouses, “That's great, that's really useful!” 

Seeing Vesta’s tears, Dundy urges, “Come on. Don't look at him.” He takes a gentle hold of her hand and then he gasps, whirling to face her. “I’ve got to have sex with you right _now_.” His eyes are dilated, the veins in his neck bulging and visually pulsing for a few seconds. “You’re so beautiful.”

They all stare in shock, disgust, and confusion- collectively thinking that what they’re seeing can’t possibly be happening.

“What's up with him?” Tom gaped at Dundy, clearly thinking he’s lost his mind.

“Let's go, let's do it now,” Dundy insists, taking hold of her free hand, gripping her wrist tight.

Vesta screams, a threatened wildcat poised to scratch his eyes out. “Get off me, you freak!” She knees him in the stomach.

Doubling over, he presses his hands to stomach in, staring at her in abject shock. “What?”

Furious, she hauls back to slap his face, but he straightens and catches her wrist in time. As before his eyes dilate. “You're so hot! I'm gonna bone you, I'm gonna shag you senseless!”

Edward quickly steps in, breaking Dundy’s grip on her, “Let go!” 

“What did I do?” The spell broken, Dundy stares at them all in confusion.

“You said you were going to shag her.” Edward glares, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hickey chimes in to say, “You were getting your chap out.”

“Shut up!” Dundy hisses, but glances down anyway to realise it’s just as Hickey said. He hastily zips up. 

“It's when you were touching her,” George voices, comprehending the situation. “Her skin.”

Vesta stares incredulously at George, then turns her gaze to encompass them all before raising her hands. She examines them, turning them over and then back again. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary she knows now she has to test it out to be absolutely certain. As Hickey is standing fairly close to her, Vesta reaches out to touch his face. The theory is proved as he reacts in exactly the same way. 

“I’m so hard for you. I want to rip your clothes off and piss on your tits.”

“What is happening to me?!” She quickly pulls back her hand the moment he turned to grab at her. 

“You sick bastard!” Thea rounds on him, and if looks could kill he would have fallen dead that moment.

“All right, everyone stop freaking out!” He holds up his hands, quickly stepping back. “Whatever I said, it doesn’t mean anything, it wasn’t _me_ , seriously! One hundred percent gay, here, if you lot haven’t noticed already.” He looks at Vesta then, “Not interested, I swear.”

Suddenly glass shatters behind them, the snarling and grunting probation worker throwing himself inside. It frightens them all to such a degree that Hickey actually lets out a high pitched shriek, not unlike a preteen girl. The others curse and yelp as they try to put distance between themselves and the probation worker, scattering and fanning out. 

Edward spots one of the paint cans they’d used the day before and goes for it, praying it was a full unused one. Thankfully it’s indeed full. He grabs the handle and swings it around, hitting the probation worker hard in the back of the head just as a bolt of electricity hits the man, causing him to convulse a few times before falling into a heap on the floor.

“What did you do?” Hickey stares between Edward and Tom who is standing opposite Edward with the probation worker laying on the floor between them, staring at his trembling hands.

“Apparently,” Tom swallows, hands still held up with his palms facing down, “I can shock people...with electricity.” 

The sensation of static electricity surrounds him and George, standing close, is forced to move away. 

Bringing the attention back to the truly important matter at hand, Vesta asks, “Is he dead?” 

“I’m no doctor, but...you see the way the back of his head's caved in like that…” Thea trails off, staring at the massive wound with a touch of fascination.

Suddenly the probation worker surges to life, grunting and growling. He reaches for George, who when he’d stepped away from Tom had consequently moved closer to him. “ _SCUM!_ ” The man grabs hold of George’s leg and forcefully jerks him, bringing him to the ground. He’s already crawling over George, pinning him down, and gets his hand around his throat, squeezing.

“ _We aren’t scum!_ ” Edward roars and kicks the probation worker’s head so hard they all hear the snap of his neck. George manages to scramble away seconds before Edward stamps down on the man’s head three times, blood splattering everyone in close proximity, before stepping back, breathing hard.

“That should do it.” Always cocky, Hickey isn’t quite so cocky now. 

Vesta barely breathed, “You _killed_ our probation worker.” 

“This is very, _very_ bad.” Dundy presses his palms against his temples, closing his eyes and opening them as though hoping this was a nightmare he could wake from.

“I feel sick,” Tom dashes to the gap between the end of the lockers and the wall; George had beaten him to the waste bin on the opposite side of the room, sicking up everything he’d consumed that day plus some. Tom, however, is caught in a bout of dry heaving.

Adrenaline waning, Edward stares at the corpse at his feet only now truly realising exactly what he's done and what that meant. “He would have killed us.”

“We should call the police.” Dundy suggests desperately. “It was self-defence.”

“Yeah. He's right.” Tom jumps on that, panic hitting him full in the chest. “We show him the dead boy in the locker, they'll do some CSI shit and figure it out.”

“They won't believe us,” Edward tells them, knowing better. 

Vesta, not about to give up, persists, “We just tell them the truth. We stick to our story.” 

“What's our story? That you drive people into a sexual frenzy, she can turn invisible, he can turn back time, he can hear our thoughts, and he can electric shock people?” George’s voice is hoarse, complexion white as a sheet, his body visibly shaking. “It doesn't matter what we tell them, they'll say we're lying. They'll say we killed them both. You heard him! Everyone thinks we’re scum. No one's gonna believe us, not any more.”

Immediately Tom is at his side, stroking his hands up and down George’s arms. Speaking quietly so that only George could hear him, he begins guiding him into measured breathing and then into deep breathing. 

“If there's no body, there's no crime.” Thea points out, drawing their collective attention from George and Tom. She knows very well that if she were in George’s place, she certainly wouldn’t want an audience. “We should bury them under the flyover.”

“Yeah?” Dundy quietly scoffs “How do we do that? Someone's gonna see us.”

“No, we give them a quick little…” Hickey mimes cleaning up the scene. “Put them in those wheelchairs, we wheel them up there, and if anyone sees us, we're just a bunch of young people taking a couple of specials for a walk in the sunshine.”

Knowing there’s nothing else for it, Edward agrees. “Works for me.” He directs Thea and Vesta to procure mops, towels, and buckets of soap water while he and Dundy will bring over two wheelchairs. 

He glances over to Tom and George, getting Tom’s attention and makes a gesture to his clothes. Tom nods, winds his arm around George and walks him to the locker room to get changed out.

“What about that shattered window?” Vesta nods toward the mess. “Won’t that attract attention?”

“It’s just more anti-social behavior, innit? A senseless act of vandalism.” Now it was Hickey’s turn to step up. “I’ll clean up the glass and spray paint some shit message. Done. Sorted.”

Just a little impressed, Edward gives Hickey a slight nod in approval. “C’mon, we need to hurry before someone happens to come along.”

Knowing the time was indeed a luxury they don’t have, they all disperse to see to their various tasks. 

  
  


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“I’m pretty sure this breaches the terms of my ASBO.” Hickey pauses in his shoveling to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

“We don't tell anyone about this, yeah?” Edward tells them gravely. “About the storm or what it did to us or anything.”

“We’re about to bury our probation worker, we don't need to be drawing any attention to ourselves.” Thea adds, stopping to stretch out her back.

“I don't want anyone to know.” Vesta doesn’t pause her shoveling for a moment, just needing to be done with it all. “I cannot be a freak.” 

“What about you?” Edward looks at Dundy and Tom. “There’s no going back now.”

“My lips are sealed, mate,” Tom assures him while Dundy nods.

“You all right?” He quietly asks George, taking a moment to study him, surprised to find himself feeling so protective of him, more protective than he is with others. 

“I’m fine.” George keeps shoveling, carefully not looking at him. _“Nothing about this is fine- fuck, he can hear that! Keep it together.”_ He shovels harder, focusing hard to keep his mind blank.

“Hold on, all of you have some kind of special power.” Hickey sticks his shovel in the ground, leaning on it. “Everyone can do something except me.”

“It’s not as if I have a power,” George tosses at him, wishing he would just shut up. _“And I’d rather not have one, thanks. Don’t need the added anxiety.”_

“Maybe you can both do something, you just haven't found out what it is yet.” Tom suggests. 

“Yeah, right.” Hickey appears to think about it. “What if I can't feel pain? Ow!”

Edward punches him in the shoulder. “Feel that?” 

“Stop hitting me!” Hickey grouses, rubbing at his arm.

They fall silent then, shoveling harder until the grave is deep enough. Setting aside their shovels they wheel Baseball Cap over and tip the wheelchair enough for him to simply drop down into the pit. Just before they do the same for the probation worker Thea stops them and searches the man’s pockets.

“What’re you doing?” Vesta questions, unnerved by Thea’s manner- how it didn’t seem to bother her that she was touching the corpse as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“The last thing we need is for someone to call the prick and alert everyone to his location.” Thea withdraws the probation worker’s mobile and wallet, holding them up for everyone to see. “As for the wallet, I’m going to use his credit card to book a one-way flight to Singapore using a public library computer. I’ll con one of my online friends over there to make a few purchases with the credit card info.”

“That’s brilliant.” George stares at her, very much impressed. “Dead smart.”

“Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week.” She deadpans. “For now, let’s get this arsehole buried.”

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Edward glances up from the scrap of paper with George’s address, almost illegible for having been jotted down in a hasty scrawl. Earlier that day, before they’d wheeled the two corpses out to the flyover, he’d gone into the probation worker’s office to gather up all their mobiles and looked up George’s address and mobile number in the files. Out of all of them George seemed to be the most visibly traumatised, and that was a great cause of concern for him. He’d been half-way out the door when it dawned on him that this could be perceived as high-key stalker behavior.

 _“Okay, maybe yeah...I should probably get everyone else’s info. Maybe it won’t look so bad if I check on everyone and not single out George…”_ With that in mind, he’d quickly made copies of everyone’s info and made his way out before anyone could be the wiser.

Now, he’s stood in front of the door to George’s flat struck by a realisation. He’s been here before, that first day hours after walking George to hospital. The arresting music he’d been entranced by had come from this floor of the building, from _this_ flat. Instantly he remembers the day after the storm, remembers George’s thoughts about not being able to play piano after suckerpunching Hickey, hurting his uninjured hand in the process. It isn’t coincidence- couldn’t be. _George_ had played that heart-wrenching music. He’d never _experienced_ music like that, music that made him _feel_ things- emotions that hadn’t been there before.

Desperately concerned now, Edward knocks heavily against the door. no sounds of movement came from within. He knocks again, louder. Still, no sounds of movement. Worried, he bangs on the door. 

“George! It’s me, Edward.” He keeps banging. “Open the door! _George!_ ” 

There being no sign of life inside, Edward digs into his pocket for his lock picking tools. Quickly he picks the lock, turns the knob, and charges inside. He locks and closes the door behind him before moving further. At the end of the brief entryway, Edward finds himself in a sitting room that’s been converted into a music room housing a piano, cello in its stand, and what had to be a violin case sitting upon a small shabby looking sofa. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small low table situated in front of the sofa. 

As he steps further inside the room he spots a small kitchen to his left. The only other doors were across the room, nearer to the piano. Edward crosses the room and tries the door to his left, finding only a bathroom. He then tries what could only be the bedroom door and steps inside to find a small bedroom which housed only an antique looking wardrobe, a nightstand, and a bed upon which George lays sprawled, dead asleep. Music plays from the mobile in the blond’s hand; the song is one he doesn’t recognise.

_I'm slipping into the deep end_

_I'm in over my head_

_I can't catch my breath_

_I'm slipping into the deep end_

_Feel the current within_

_I can't help but give in_

Unnerving lyrics aside, the scene appears innocent enough, nothing that would merit further worries, had it not been for the empty wine bottle knocked onto its side on the rug beside the bed and nightstand next to a mug that had clearly spilled its contents. Edward frowns slightly and steps closer to see there was also a prescription bottle on the nightstand. He picks up the bottle and sees Valium printed on it and immediately panics.

Edward quickly empties out the bottle onto the bed and counts the pills and then checks the amount prescribed. Three have been used. He starts to breathe hard. George might have taken three today, but there was also the possibility he may have taken one for three days. Either way, the man had consumed an entire bottle of wine with the medication and that certainly doesn’t bode well. 

Not wasting a moment, Edward sweeps the remaining pills back into the bottle and pockets them before picking up the bottle and mug to replace on the nightstand. He then pulls George closer to the edge of the bed, attempting to get enough leverage to carry the man. It proves to be a bit difficult. George may be lanky limbed, but he is still tall with legs for days. Still, after a few attempts Edward manages it and carries him to the bathroom.

Settling himself on the edge of the tub, Edward maneuvers George to sit with his back to his chest. Steeling himself, he gets the man’s jaw open and slides a finger into his mouth, back into his throat to engage the gag reflex. As with all the previous times he had to do this for his mates in school, it works like a charm. George comes to life and sicks into the tub and Edward carefully leans him forward to aid the process. 

Ordinarily, in the past with his mates or even strangers at the parties he used to go to, he’d always felt tired and annoyed having to do this sort of thing- but then there had never been anyone else stepping up to help, so it fell to him. Now, however, he’s so far from annoyed. His heart is breaking listening to George emptying himself, everything in him, Edward wonders if all that’s going to be left is an empty shell. 

Eventually the heaving ceases and the only sound that could be heard is George’s strained breathing. Edward carefully moves and helps George to sit on the floor leaning against the wall, rises to turn on the showerhead to clean away the evidence of the overdose while he fetches a hand towel. Getting the towel wet he uses it to gently clean George’s mouth. At this point the blond, vaguely aware of what is happening, meets Edward’s eyes, bleary eyed- still drowsy and mostly out of it. 

“Why’re you so nice to me?” George’s words are quiet, murmured drowsily. His hand seeks Edward’s hand but comes to rest almost lifelessly on his wrist, over his jacket sleeve.

The simple question, displaying so much vulnerability, suggested much about his life experience. It breaks Edward’s heart, and as much as he wants to answer the question, he finds there’s no real answer he can give, not yet at least. The only thing he can do is smile reassuringly for George’s benefit, though he doubts very much that George will remember any of this come the morning.

  
  


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“So…if anyone asks what happened yesterday, we say nothing, right?” Edward needlessly reminds them. He knows they’re well aware of the stakes, but he just _needs_ to say it for his own peace of mind. “It was just a completely normal day.” 

Everyone collectively nods, changed out into their jumpsuits. Looking at their eyes and various expressions, it's clear no one slept last night. Thinking of everything that had happened the previous evening, Edward looks over at George and meets his eyes. Though George is looking in his direction and almost appears to be returning the gaze, he could tell blond was looking straight through him, or rather wasn’t seeing him at all. It sent a chill up Edward’s spine and only deepened his protective instinct.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“There's nothing here. No note, nothing. It's like he's just disappeared. Some of them are here already.” A brunette woman paced the office floor, gripping the mobile she held to her ear. “Yeah. I'll talk to them.”

She hangs up and turns to catch sight of the seven young offenders filing past through the office window. Sighing, she grabs the clipboard on the desk, prepares herself, and leaves the office. She finds the lot of them gathered in the main entryway. The gothic looking girl notices her first. When the girl nodded in her direction, the others all turned to face her.

“Hello, I’m Sally,” she manages a polite smile. “I’m your new probation worker.” When that fails to get a response from them, excepting several exchanged glances, she presses on. “I’m going to read out your names and I need you to raise your hand when you hear your name. If you have a preferred name or nickname let me know.” She looks down at her clipboard and starts reading off their names.

“Theadora Fairholme.”

“Thea’s fine.”

“Vesta-Tilley Fitzjames.”

“Thomas Hartnell.”

“Tom.”

“Cornelius Hickey.”

“Hickey’s the name.” He pointedly ignores the stifled laughter from the others.

“George Hodgson.”

“Edward Little.”

“Henry Le Vesconte.”

“Dundy, thanks.”

With that business taken care of, Sally lowers her clipboard and looks down the line of them before speaking. “Gary and my colleague Tony have both been reported missing. Their families are very worried about them. Have you seen anything unusual? Anything at all?” 

Hickey appears to want to say something, so she prompts him, “You saw something?” George bites his lip, Edward rolls his eyes, Vesta sighs, and the others stare at Hickey with blank expressions- and it seemed to her those expressions look just a bit studied.

“A few days ago...I go into the toilets, Tony and Gary were in there. They are butt naked, Tony has Gary by his neck and he's just doing him, doggy style.” Hickey recounts. “So I'm guessing they've ran away to continue their illicit homosexual affair. I ask you, in this world of intolerance and prejudice, who are we to condemn them?”

With fury rising in her, Sally takes a few breaths, moderating her breathing. Disgusted with Hickey, with the lot of them, she intones, “Go pick up trash.” She stalks away toward the office. _“Like the trash you are.”_

She slams the office door behind her, paces, and then removes her mobile from her pocket, calling Tony once again. It goes straight to voicemail.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


“I think we got away with it.” Hickey stretches and looks over the edge of the roof where they gathered.

Edward sighs, “You actually believe that or are you just really that thick?” 

“I actually believe that.” Hickey insists, and then picking up the train of an earlier conversation, whinges, “I was there. I should have one of these bullshit powers.” 

“You can have mine. You want to hear what people are thinking about you?” Edward grumbles, looking off toward the lake.

“Not so much. I want something good, something from the A-list.” 

Having enough of Hickey’s whinging- more to the point, having enough of Hickey altogether George suggests, “Maybe you can fly.” He knows enough about the tosser to know he’ll take the bait and actually try it out. His nerves completely frayed, he muses he could do with seeing Hickey fall flat on his rat face.

“He's not going to be able to fly.” Thea points out the obvious.

“Yeah, there's always someone who can fly.” Hickey jumps on that, smirking. “Check it out.”

“Don’t.” Dundy rolls his eyes.

Hickey ignores him and climbs onto one of the chairs they’d dragged over. He spreads his arm like a bird and leaps high and falls to the ground. “Ow! No, that's not it.” 

“So, what happens now? Is this it? Are we gonna be like this forever?” Vesta asks, tiredly. 

“What if we are meant to be, like, superheroes?” Tom voices, musing that stranger things have happened.

“You lot, superheroes?” Hickey laughs derisively. “No offence, but in what kind of fucked-up world would that be allowed to happen?” 

George moves to stand near the edge, the toes of one of his shoes slightly over the edge. _“I did not sign up for that.”_ He’s half tempted to just step over the edge.

Hearing his thoughts and seeing the danger Edward slowly approaches George, Tom noticing his move and the situation at hand, comes over as well, but before they could do anything George senses their proximity. As he became aware of their nearness he seems to come back to himself, realising the precariousness of his position. Carefully he steps back. 

Behind them Hickey talks on, scoffing at Tom. “Superheroes! I love this guy- you prick!”

“What if there's loads of people like us all over town?” Dundy finally speaks up, knowing they couldn’t possibly be the only ones affected by the storm.

“No, that kind of thing only happens in America.” Hickey contends, shaking his head at the very idea. “This will fade away. I'm telling you, by this time next week, it'll be back to the same old boring shit.”

A door opens from below and they all see their new probation worker walking out, clearly distressed. Seeming to sense their collective gaze she stops at the rail and looks behind her and then up to spot them. That was their cue to disperse and avoid drawing further attention to themselves.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much encouraged and will only provide further motivation for me to continue writing, so if you enjoy this work, please leave comments. ❤️ Thank you!


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